Past Autumn
We move in closer orbits
The air holds us tighter
Each window is an absence
And the door is a threat
The outcome is uncertain
But our pattern is set
In territories
Masked by map and metaphor

So
Pull me into this still moment
Now
Pull me out of the air
In this small conjuration
Show what we always knew

And the cold hunger
That we refuse to feed
Will keep its distance
From our fire